Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
It's him.
The smug, ridiculously attractive, possibly deranged French man from the airport.
His blue eyes flash with recognition just as mine do, and for a brief, fleeting second, I think that he’ll at least have the basic human decency to look embarrassed.
“What. The. Fuck!”
I place my empty glass down on the bar, trying to ignore the fact that my sticky sheer sarong is clinging to me uncomfortably.
I grit my teeth as a cold chill rolls through my body and watch as the corners of his lips twitch, like he’s desperately trying to hold back a laugh.
Oh, I hate him.
"Do you find this funny?" I demand.
He exhales, shaking his head.
"No, no -"
But he definitely laughs.
"Oh my god," I seethe. "You do find it funny!"
"No," he insists again, his French accent thick as his lips continue to twitch. "It’s just… it is a very dramatic color, no?"
I gape at him.
I am soaked. I am sticky. I am freezing.
And I am absolutely, unequivocally furious.
Not only because this is the second time in two days that this man has appeared in my life uninvited, but because he has now ruined my outfit in the process.
The thought has me narrowing my eyes as I glare at him, hard.
"Are you following me?"
He blinks, genuinely looking confused.
"Pardon?"
"I mean, first the airport, now here?" I press on. "Let me guess - you just so happened to be at this bar, just so happened to be standing right behind me, and just so happened to knock into me at the exact moment I was holding my drink?"
He tilts his head, amusement dancing in his annoyingly bright eyes.
"You think I am… what? A stalker?"
I gesture dramatically at myself. "You tell me!"
His lips curve into a slow, lazy smirk, like this is all some great source of entertainment for him.
"If I was stalking you, mon ange," he says smoothly, "I would be much better at it."
I bristle.
The bartender leans over and hands me some napkins, and I just about manage a tight-lipped smile in thanks before I begin furiously dabbing at my ruined outfit.
"Do you know how expensive this bikini is?" I huff.
Honestly, I don’t even know what possesses me to say it. But I’m cold, wet, and thoroughly pissed off, and I need to make that very, very clear.
He simply lifts a brow, his gaze flicking down to the damp mess of my once-perfect outfit.
"I would guess… not as expensive as you want me to think."
Oh, he did not just say that.
I exhale sharply, my tipsy brain scrambling for the correct level of fury.
"You are buying me another drink."
He shrugs. "Bien sûr."
He subtly nods in the direction of the bartender, who I assume is still staring at the absolute state of me, just like everyone else around us.
"And you are apologising properly."
The bastard smirks again, like he’s enjoying winding me up.
"Oh? The 'merde' was not enough for you?"
"Not even close."
He presses a hand to his chest, his expression mock-sincere, and his blue eyes glint with mischief.
"Well, then I am deeply sorry for ruining your incredibly expensive bikini."
I glare.
"You're not taking this seriously."
"Because, mon ange," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, "you are very funny when you are mad."
I scowl, refusing to acknowledge the fact that my stomach tightens slightly at the way he says mon ange.
I hate him.
I hate that he has the audacity to be this good-looking whilst tormenting me.
And I especially hate the fact that some deranged part of me kind of enjoys arguing with him. Just a little.
The bartender slides a fresh daiquiri onto the bar, and I snatch it up, fully ignoring the way Mr. Smug Frenchman watches me over the rim of his own drink.
I take a long sip, willing myself to recover even a shred of dignity.
It does not work.
Because then, with the audacity of a man who has never suffered consequences in his entire life, he tilts his head, smirks that infuriating smirk, and says -
"Are you always this much of a disaster?"
I literally gasp.
"Excuse me?" I splutter, gripping my glass so tightly I might actually shatter it.
He has the nerve to look intrigued, like I’m some kind of fascinating little spectacle that’s wandered into his night uninvited.
"It’s just an observation," he muses, leaning an elbow against the bar, far too relaxed for someone who just turned me into a human cocktail. "First, you manage to spill an entire drink all over yourself -"
I stab a finger in his direction. "You knocked into me."
"That’s not how I remember it."
"Oh? And how do you remember it?"
He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver something profound.
"I remember you stumbling into me -"
"That is absolutely not true -"
"And like the true gentleman that I am," he continues, ignoring my protest, "I was simply trying to steady you."
I let out a slow breath, willing myself not to lean over and strangle him.